came in and took a seat in the background; if Steele heard, he did not
look around. His gaze remained fastened on the stage; between him and
it--or them, art's gaily attired illusions!--a tress of golden hair
sometimes intervened, but he did not move. Through threads like woven
flashes of light he regarded the scene of the poet's fantasy. Did they
make her a part of it,--did they seem to the man the fantasy's
intangible medium, its imagery? Threads of gold, threads of melody! He
saw the former, heard the latter. They rose and fell wilfully,
capriciously, with many an airy and fanciful turn. The man leaned his
head on his hand; a clear strain died like a filament of purest metal
gently broken. She breathed a little quicker; leaned farther forward;
now her slender figure obtruded slightly between him and the performers.
He seemed content with a partial view of the stage, and so remained
until the curtain went down. The girl turned; in her eyes was a
question.

"Beautiful!" said the man, looking at her.

"Charming! What colorature! And the bravura!" Captain Forsythe applauded
vigorously.

"You've never met Lord Ronsdale, I believe, Mr. Steele?" Sir Charles'
voice, close to his ear, inquired.

"Lord Ronsdale!" John Steele looked perfunctorily around toward the back
of the box and saw there a face faintly illumined in the light from the
stage: a cynical face, white, mask-like. Had his own features not been
set from the partial glow that sifted upward, the sudden emotion that
swept Steele's countenance would have been observed. A sound escaped his
lips; was drowned, however, in a renewed outbreak of applause. The diva